


You Owe Me

by slashy (slashmyheartandhopetoporn)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassins & Hitmen, Crimes & Criminals, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-17 09:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8139796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmyheartandhopetoporn/pseuds/slashy
Summary: on tumblr @bride-of-a-lucard prompted: Modern AU“We met when you jumped into my car while escaping bad guys and I happened to be an international assassin who ended up falling in love with you and had to save you more than once.”Billy’s the assassin (with a heart of gold ofc, only goes after actual bad guys, never anyone innocent). Goody’s the one with a gambling problem who has bookies sending hitmen after him after making a string of big bets he can’t pay off.





	1. San Francisco, Spring

**Author's Note:**

> this ship happened real fast, and real hard. hope folks enjoy this chapter--hoping for a handful more.

Billy’s at a stop light when the passenger door opens.

“Hi,” the newcomer says, out of breath. “I’ll pay you three hundred dollars to drive me anywhere but here.”

Billy keeps one hand on the wheel and the other on the knife he’d pulled out of his bun the moment the door handle had jostled. “This isn’t a cab,” he answers coolly.

“Oh, I know,” the stranger says with a smile. “But I need a ride, and you happened to be stopped at this corner. I’ll pay you, I swear.”

He plans to say no, and to stab the man to make his point emphatically clear. But just out the window Billy can see half a dozen men in black suits with tattoos on their knuckles making their way towards his car, and he reconsiders. He recognizes Anton Popov and frowns. The Russian mob. He wonders what kind of mess this white man just got him into.

“Pay me first,” Billy says.

The man is clearly not expecting the demand. “Are you being serious right now? We need to  _go_.”

“No money, no ride.”

“Jesus,” the man mutters. He makes no move to take out his wallet.

Billy’s about to shove his knife between the man’s ribs and push him right back out of the car when the mob finally catches up, fists banging the windows of Billy’s very expensive car.

The man jumps. “Go, go, go, go, _GO_!”

Billy swears, tucks his knife back into his hair, and hits the gas.

“Who are you?” he asks calmly as he navigates the busy streets, dodging cars and bicyclists with ease and grace.

“You’re really good at driving really fast,” the man says in surprise instead. "Also, do you ever cut yourself sticking your knife in your manbun like that?"

“Why is the Russian mob after you?”

He waves a hand, dismissive. “Nothing major. Slight miscommunication. Wait, how’d you know that was the Russian mob?”

It’s Billy’s turn not to answer. He stays silent and deftly zips around an elderly pedestrian. The man lets the question go.

“Well, thanks for all this, really,” the man says. “I’d be dead by now otherwise.”

“The ride’s not over yet,” counters Billy.

The man laughs. “I like you. What’s that accent? Korean?”

Billy looks at him, letting the surprise show ever so slightly through his eyebrows.

“I’m good with accents,” the man explains. “But not so good with languages, which is weird, but that’s life.”

“Who are you?” Billy asks again, firmer. It’s like dealing with a child.

“My dad tried to teach me Spanish when I was growing up–-total waste of everyone’s time. And even though I lived in Iraq for basically two years, I hardly picked up a lick of Arabic. Ridiculous!” He shakes his head. “You know what I remember how to say? Orange.” The man demonstrates. “ _Burtuqaal_.”

“Please stop talking." If the man won’t give him any real information, then he’s better off silent.

He doesn’t heed Billy’s warning. “Hey, did I mention that you’re, like, _really good_ at this whole high-speed chase thing?”

“Yes.”

The rest of the ride is blessedly silent. Billy takes the opportunity to take in the stranger sitting beside him. He’s handsome and well-dressed, and he looks only a few years older than Billy, himself. He’s clean-shaven, his brown hair trimmed short, and if Billy weren’t a professional he’d be inclined to find the man attractive. As it is, he only finds him irritating.

Ten minutes later, with no sign of the mob in sight, Billy pulls over and puts the car in park.

“Give me my money, and get the fuck out of my car.”

The man chuckles. “All right, all right–-wait a minute.” He takes in their surroundings. “What the hell is this?”

Billy shrugs. “You said you wanted to be anywhere but there. _This_ is not _there_.”

“Yeah. But _this_ is the _police station_.”

“What’s wrong with that? I thought you might want their help. Unless, of course, you are a criminal too.”

“I’m not–-listen. This was not cool.” The man takes off his seat belt and swings open the car door, thoroughly knocking over a bicyclist riding on the sidewalk.

“What the hell,” Billy says, while the man rushes out of the car to help the cyclist to his feet.

“I am so sorry,” he exclaims. He closes the car door, leaving Billy alone, and all at once Billy gets the sense that something’s not quite right.

He steps out of the car to keep the stranger in sight, but by the time he’s come around to the passenger side, the only person present is the fallen bike rider nursing his knee on the sidewalk.

“Where did he go?” Billy demands.

The bicyclist tosses his head back in the direction of the station. “He said he was going to get some help.”

Billy highly doubts it. He swears spectacularly in Korean.

So much for his three hundred dollars.

 


	2. Austin, Fall

He's at a hole-in-the-wall college bar literally named _Hole in the Wall_ when their paths cross again. Billy’s having drinks with Vasquez, cursing the loud music and eyeing suspiciously the Asian fusion takeout he ordered from the restaurant out back, when the man walks in. He’s mid-way through asking Vasquez why the hell they're even at that bar when he sees him.

“Son of a bitch.”

Vasquez’s brows knit. “What?”

Billy nods to the man as he moseys up to the bar. “That man owes me three hundred dollars.”

Vasquez turns to see the man for himself, and freezes. “Shit.”

“You know him?” asks Billy, anxious for any information he can get.

“Shit, _shit_! Of course I know him! That’s Goodnight Robicheaux, and I have at least six warrants out for my arrest.”

Billy’s eyes widen. “ _That_ is Goodnight Robicheaux? The cowboy marshal who helped take down Bart Bogue back in Rose Creek? The decorated Iraq war sniper? The _Angel of Death_?” He considers this. “Huh. I didn't recognize him without the hat.”

“Okay, we’ve established you know of him too. Now can we go?” Vasquez throws his tip on the table stands as nonchalantly as he can.

Billy stays put. “I'm not going anywhere. I want my money.”

Vasquez sighs, shoulders slumping slightly, and then returns to his seat. “If I get arrested, I’m holding you solely responsible.”

“Relax,” says Billy. “I don't think he's a federal any more. When I met him, he was running from the Russian mob.”

Vasquez frowns. “That doesn't sound like Marshal business.”

“No. It does not.”

They watch Robicheaux collect his beer and head for the back of the bar where the music is quieter. They lose sight of him, but not for long. Five minutes after Robicheaux disappears, he reappears, sans beer and moving fast.

Billy figures he must be wearing some kind beacon that only Robicheaux can see when he's in trouble, because seconds after Robicheaux returns, his eyes hone in on Billy’s and Vasquez’s table, his face breaking out in a wide smile.

“Manbun!”

“That’s my cue to go,” Vasquez mutters as he slips quietly from the table.

“That is not my name, Robicheaux,” Billy says, ignoring Vasquez’s escape.

Robicheaux looks surprised, but also a little delighted, that Billy now knows his name.

“Hey, so I was wondering,” Robicheaux begins quickly.

“No.”

“I'll pay you three hundred dollars to take me anywhere that isn't here _or_ a police station.”

“You already owe me three hundred dollars.”

Robicheaux looks anxiously back over his shoulder. “Then let's call it five and go from there. Key word being _go_.”

“And who are you running from this time, Marshal?”

“Them,” Robicheaux says as the men finally arrive. There are two of them, and they're both covered in beer.

They raise their guns, snarls on their faces, and it takes only a split second for Billy to decide how he wants to proceed. And for his hairpins to find their targets and the guns to hit the ground.

Robicheaux beams. “A man after my own heart.”

“You're next if I don't get my money.” Billy's already got a third hairpin poised for throwing.

“Your buddy--what’s his name, Vasquez?--had the right idea leaving when he did. The cops will be here any minute, and so we best follow suit if we want to avoid them.”

Billy wants to argue, but the sound of sirens is undeniable. He stands and grabs his coat. “You leave my sight without paying me what's owed, and this finds a new home in your spine.”

“I don't doubt that for a minute.”

Billy drops an extra hundred dollar bill on the table to try and make up for the bodies he dropped on the floor. He knows it’s not quite comparable, but it’ll have to do. Then he grabs Robicheaux by the arm and manhandles him out of the bar, collecting his hairpin as he goes. They’re slipping into Billy’s car just as the police are exiting theirs.

Robicheaux taps on his knees excitedly. “Are we going to do another high-speed ride through the city? That was my favorite part last time.”

Billy scowls. “You are a terrible Marshal.”

“On the contrary, I am not a Marshal at all. Not anymore.”

As Billy suspected. Vasquez had run for nothing.

“So where are we going?” Robicheaux asks.

“Where is my money?”

Robicheaux sighs. “Okay, I’m going to be upfront with you: I’ve only got, maybe, sixty bucks on me.”

Billy wants to spit. “I cannot believe _you_ are the Angel of Death,” he grits out.

“Shit, I hate that nickname,” Robicheaux says, not a little bitter. “So violent.”

“‘Goodnight’ is so much better?”

“It’s certainly a little sweeter.”

“Whatever I choose to call you, Robicheaux, you better have a way of getting me what’s owed. Twice now I have done you a favor.”

“And I appreciate it mightily, Mr. Rocks.”

Billy cocks his head. “Not as dumb as you look, Goodnight.”

“I do know how to use the internet.”

Billy knows, of course, there’s much more to Robicheaux discovering his identity than that--no way Billy Rocks can be found via Google. Robicheaux would have needed skill, connections, money, or some combination of all three.

“Listen,” Robicheaux says. “Not many people can say they have me in their debt. Can’t we just leave it at that?”

Billy pulls into a parking lot and shuts off the engine. He turns to look at Robicheaux. He knows, objectively, he should kick the man out of his car and be done with it, that he should rough up the smooth-talker as punishment for lying and let him be on his way. But underneath Billy’s rationale and good sense, something more primal rears its head. Because Billy finds he _likes_ the man sitting beside him. He likes his gall. And Billy is terribly curious about how Robicheaux, the Angel of Death, came to leave his federal service for a life of apparent crime.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Billy says, voice low. “First, you’re going to buy me a drink. Then you’re going to tell me why you’re in trouble with both the Russian mob and what looked like two employees of the Bishop crime syndicate.”

Robicheaux frowns. “That doesn’t feel necessary.”

“It’s cheaper than paying me six hundred dollars. Or do you have that in your back pocket after all?”

Robicheaux raises his hands. “You got me. Take me to a bar.”

Billy opens his door. “I did. Get out.”

The establishment is much nicer than where Vasquez had taken Billy, and _much_ more expensive. Billy orders a double scotch, neat, and then leaves Robicheaux to settle the tab. He slides into a back corner booth and watches the man like a hawk; Robicheaux won't be sneaking away this time.

When Robicheaux arrives at the booth, two identical drinks in hand, he nods his head. “You've got good taste, Rocks.”

“Impeccable,” Billy corrects.

“A confident man. I like that.”

Billy sips his scotch. “No, Robicheaux, I'm starting to suspect it is you who is the confidence man.”

Robicheaux winks and knocks back his scotch. “Burns so good,” he says with a satisfied smack of his lips.

“Tell me about the mob.” Billy’s always believed in getting straight to the point. Especially where con men are concerned.

Robicheaux shrugs. “Not much to say. I believe I already told you there was a minor misunderstanding.”

“What kind of minor misunderstanding?”

“Oh, you know. Just a money thing.”

Like pulling teeth. “How much?”

Robicheaux looks unconcerned as he answers, “Popov thought I owed him, like, thirty grand or some piddly thing.”

Billy almost chokes on his drink. “ _Piddly_?”

“It means sma--”

“I know what it means, Robicheaux.”

He has the decency to look apologetic. “Right. Well, obviously I don't owe him shit so. There you have it. A misunderstanding.”

Billy thinks of the six hundred Robicheaux has promised him over their two encounters, and safely assumes the only misunderstanding taking place is what Robicheaux thinks the word “owe” means.

“And the Bishop boys?”

Another shrug. “They're just dicks. I as much as told them so, then tossed my beer on them. For some reason they took offense.”

Billy can't help the small smile that twists the corners of his mouth. Gall. “I can't possibly imagine why.”

Robicheaux catches his minute grin and laughs.

This isn't how Billy foresaw his day transpiring. Robicheaux is clearly lying to him, or at the very least withholding the whole truth, but still, despite everything, Billy's enjoying himself and the man he's forcing to buy him drinks.

“So,” Robicheaux says after a moment. “How do you know Popov’s boys and the Bishop clan yourself?”

Billy considers his words carefully. “My work has, on occasion, intersected with theirs. In ways both positive and negative.”

“There any love lost?”

Billy finishes his drink and places his empty class heavily down on the table. “None.”

Robicheaux nods. He seems content not to ask further questions about Billy’s relationship with various aspects of the criminal underworld.

He stands and points to their empty glasses. “Ready for round two?”

Round two leads to round three, which leads, of course to round four. By round six, Billy is leaning bodily against Robicheaux, laughing and hiccuping and letting all his limbs tangle with Robicheaux’s as they lean into the booth. Billy’s so drunk he’s taken to calling Robicheaux “Goody” simply because it's easier to say, and half his words come out as Korean first already.

Goody has no shortage of ridiculous tales to tell, and even if only a quarter of them are true, they're still incredible stories. Billy hasn't laughed this hard in _years_ , and he’s already forgotten that twice now Goody has gotten him into a mess he had no business being part of. Yet it hardly registers. Goody is charming and earnest. He’s slyer than a snake, too, but still Billy finds himself taken in, entirely against his better judgement.

He says as much to Goody.

Goody snorts and looks at Billy fondly. He slaps Billy’s knee and says, “I do have that effect on people.” When he’s drunk, his southern accent comes through even stronger, and Billy’s appalled at how much he likes it.

He also likes the way Goody’s hand lingers on Billy’s thigh.

Billy couldn't say how much more they drink. All he knows is that he wakes up the next morning in the alley beside the bar. His head is throbbing, he smells like garbage and vomit, and Goody is nowhere in sight. A quick walk around the block to the parking lot proves his car is nowhere in sight either, and when he checks his wallet, he finds all his cash is missing.

 _Robicheaux_.

Billy looks skyward and figures it's about ten AM. He knocks on the door to the bar, and when the same bartender from the night before opens it up and scowls, Billy considers punching him in the face just to wipe that look away. The violence might make him feel better, too.

“You need to settle your tab,” the bartender says. “And you better tip well.”

Billy follows him inside and blinks in the dim bar lighting. He fantasizes about all the ways he’s going to hurt Robicheaux when he finds him. At least he left his card for the bill. But even that small comfort is taken away when the bartender slides the credit card and receipt across the bar for Billy to sign. Because the card he has is _Billy’s_.

“I didn’t give you this,” Billy says flatly.

The bartender shrugs. “Your friend brought it up last night after you were about passed out and said you’d had a change of heart about who was paying. I don’t really give a shit, so long as the card clears. Yours did. Now sign it and get the hell out of my bar.”

Billy tells himself if he weren’t so hungover, he’d make the bartender regret that tone, but deep down he knows it wouldn’t help. The one he wants to hurt is the one who isn’t here. So he signs the receipt without complaint.

Once outside, Billy takes out his phone to call a cab, and finds he has a text message from an unknown number. He can guess who it’s from all the same.

 

_Sorry about all this. I was in a tight spot after the mess earlier. Consider this another favor!_

_xoxoxo_

 

Billy wants to hate the man. He wants to hold on to his anger and let it fuel him until he hunts Robicheaux down and takes what’s his. But some part of him resists. He re-reads the text and sighs.

“Son of a bitch,” he says quietly, resigned. He saves Goody’s number and pockets the phone. Thinks to himself,

 _Until next time, Cowboy_.


	3. Los Angeles, Winter; Boston, Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO SO SO much to all the commenters and subscribers! I'm still planning to go through and thank you individually, but for now just know I've read all your comments and swooned. They mean the world.

_Hey._

That's all the first text says. Billy receives it while trailing a mark through a crowded shopping mall in Los Angeles--the truest form of hell--and has to resist the urge to growl so that he won't give his position away or alarm any nearby shoppers. It's been four months since Goody robbed him back in Austin, and while Billy can't deny an attraction of sorts to the con man, he's still mad as hell. He stares at the one-word message and fumes, and when he looks up and realizes the mark is gone, he grows even madder. What a waste.

Ten minutes later, when Billy is almost back to his _new_ car, his phone vibrates again.

_What’s up?_

It's tempting to simply break the phone and pretend it's Goody’s face. Instead, he slips it calmly into his back pocket.

Forty minutes later, Goody tries again.

_What timezone r u in?_

Billy reads the text, hurls the phone onto his hotel bed, and breaks open his first bottle from the mini bar. But Goody finally seems to take the hint, and Billy is left in peace. Until, of course, about six hours later when Billy is back out in front of the mark’s house, waiting for his re-appearance, and his phone buzzes loudly from its home in the cup holder.

_Not sure where u r in the world, but I'm in Boston abt 2 do smthg stupid._

Another buzz.

_Backup would b nice if u can make it out here._

And then one more.

_Or @ least b my getaway driver. Again._

Billy sighs. He watches his target leave the house and get in his car, and does his best to focus on the task at hand. But still, Goody’s messages vibrate through his thoughts as they had done through his phone. Billy tries to push them aside in favor of the job he's being paid a great number of dollars to do, but he never fully excises them away.

He’s tailing the mark once more, this time down a quaint, sparsely populated cobblestone street, when Goody tries again.

_R u asleep, ignoring me, or in the middle of a job?_

Billy snorts. He waits for the inevitable second text.

_Look. Just b @ this address by 9pm est tmrw if u can. 2716 Jay St Boston, MA. There's at least 1 beer n it 4 u._

Billy would rather have his money. Or his _car_.

He sighs, pockets the phone, and redirects his attention to the mark, who’s turned around and started walking back in Billy’s direction. Billy rolls his shoulder and begins a casual stroll towards the man.

“Oh, excuse me,” he says as their torsos collide. His knife slips between the man’s ribs like butter. When the man looks up at him, face contorted in pain and horror, Billy offers him a feral grin.

“The Sandovals send their regards.”

Then he moves along, wiping his knife on a black kerchief. He pulls out his phone once more, commits the address to memory, and then deletes the text. Then he drives to the airport.

-

It's snowing in Boston.

Billy hates the snow, and he holds Goody entirely responsible for this particular storm, unfair as that may be. Billy curses himself and the man that brought him here, but draws his coat tighter around his shoulders and pushes his way through the cold and the wet.

He takes a cab to the address Goody gave him. Though it's well before nine PM, Billy sends the cab away and takes the time to scope out the building and its surroundings. He finds he's at an abandoned warehouse, with all the neighboring buildings in similar states of disregard and disrepair. It looks like the kind of place someone goes to make a stupid decision, as Goody had promised.

It's takes about an hour and half to thoroughly investigate the area, and Billy spends the time imagining just what kind of trouble Goody’s managed to bring on himself, and Billy in turn. Given the city, he figures the Irish mob is likely involved, but with Goody involved, he’s already come to believe that anything is possible.

By eight o’clock, Billy considers his recon done, and having chosen a spot to sit back and watch without being noticed, he makes his way up the rickety stairs of the warehouse Goody has directed him to. The staircase is unstable and prone to excessive noise, but Billy’s feet are light, his steps nimble, and he makes nary a sound as he heads upwards.

He’s just settling into the shadows when the doors to the warehouse open. He doesn't expect Goody so early, so he isn't surprised when four men enter the building instead. They look mean and practical, and when they speak, it's easy for Billy to tell where they hail from. Billy’s always wondered what it's like to work with the Irish mob, and tonight it seems he’ll find out. He watches them case the place--two men clearing the bottom, two men slowly climbing the unsteady stairs to clear the top--and is unconcerned he’ll be discovered. Billy knows how to hide, how to shrink. Even the sweep of their flashlights fail to spot him. Billy watches them head back down with satisfaction. Goody may not appreciate it, but Billy knows it pays to be subtle.

Twenty minutes after the Irish, the door opens once more. Still, it is not Goody, but three men in suits, their guns already drawn.  Itching for a fight, clearly. He watches the newcomers approach the others and tenses when he realizes who they must be. The Italians. Their make Billy want to groan aloud in frustration: why must Goody piss off every possible player in the game? Nothing good can come of the night, Billy’s sure, and it irritates him to know that whatever does happen will almost certainly be Goody’s fault.

After a brief stare-down, the Italians comb through the warehouse as thoroughly as the Irish, but still Billy stays unseen. When they’re back on the ground floor, the staring commences again as the Italians approach slowly. Billy’s gaze is sharp as he watches, waiting to see just how the Irish will react to the guns on the display. He’s relieved to find they take it in stride, never raising their own.

“Where’s the money?” The leader of the Irish crew asks.

One of the Italians shakes their head. “We don’t do business until Robicheaux gets here. That was the deal.”

They wait in silence.

When Goody does finally arrive around nine thirty, fashionably late and whistling a jaunty tune, everyone tenses. But Goody doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“Sergio! Declan!” he says happily, nodding to each gang’s respective leader. “It is lovely to see you.”

No one else agrees.

Goody smiles, undeterred. “Gentlemen, are we ready to get to it?”

Sergio spits on the ground. “You’re late.”

If it bothers Declan, he doesn’t say so. He simply gets straight to the point. He eyes Sergio and says, “He’s here. Where’s my money?”

Sergio nods to one of the men flanking his sides, and a briefcase is produced from behind the man’s back.

“Give it to Robicheaux first,” Declan orders.

Sergio’s men bristle, but Goody interrupts. “I do believe that’s only fair.” He takes the briefcase slowly and inspects the contents. “This is legitimate,” he announces, showing the money inside to Declan. “Now it’s your turn, Mr. Gilgun.”

One of Declan’s men hands over a large bowling bag.

Goody eyes it with his brows raised. “Stylish as ever, Declan,” he says. But when he opens the bag up, his expression falls. “Declan,” he says. “What the hell is this?”

There’s a dangerous edge to his voice that Billy hadn’t thought Goody capable of producing. A shiver runs down his spine, the hairs on his neck raising. Billy suspects he’s about to see a side of Goody he never anticipated.

Declan frowns, his chest puffing slightly. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Goody overturns the bowling bag, and half a dozen Ziploc bags of something that looks suspiciously like flour tumble to the ground.

Goody’s glare is ice cold. “My dear Declan, this doesn’t look like heroin to me. Does it look like heroin to you, Sergio?”

Sergio cocks his gun. “No,” he says, furious. “It doesn’t.”

Declan doesn’t bother denying the deception. He eyes Goody, instead, his eyes sharp and discerning. Billy knows what Declan is going to do the moment before it happens, so he’s prepared for Declan’s hand to rise, a gun suddenly held within it, and aim at Goody’s unimpressed face. The gun clatters to the ground a moment later, and Declan’s scream echoes against the walls of the ramshackle warehouse, Billy’s knife lodged deep in the man’s wrist. It happens in an instant--let it not be said Billy isn’t good at his job-- but that’s all it takes for chaos to descend.

The Italians, already hungry for violence, start shooting. The Irish shoot back as their leader collapses to the floor. Billy, though above the violence and mostly out of harm’s way, ducks out of instinct, and stays down until the firing stops. It doesn't last long. When he’s able to raise his head, he’s pleased to at least find that the two factions have solved Goody’s problem for him, and shot each other to death. _Perhaps_ , Billy considers, _that was always the plan_.

He stands slowly and looks for Goody through the wreckage and smoke. At the first the man is nowhere in sight, and Billy feels his heart flutter in panic. Surely Goody hadn’t been shot. He double checks the identities of the bodies on the ground, and confirms that Goody isn’t one of them; but then where is he?

Finally Billy spots him, and is surprised by what he sees. Goody’s back is hugging the wall, his knees bent. Half of his form is covered by shadow, but the other half is visible and very obviously _terrified._ Beads of sweat roll down his face, his hands formed into fists so tight Billy can see the white of his knuckles from one story up. Something isn’t right.

“Goody?” he calls out gently. “Goody, are you hurt?”

It takes Goody a moment to answer. “I’m all right,” he says, but his voice is strangled.

Billy heads down the stairs, careful but quick. When he reaches the ground floor, his pace slows. Something tells him if he comes at Goody too fast, he’ll regret it, so he keeps his steps steady and slow, his hands raised slightly.

“Goody,” he says softly. “What’s going on?”

Goody’s eyes are wild, flitting from point to point, never landing anywhere long. “I’m fine,” he says weakly. And then, voice low, “I like it when you call me ‘Goody’.”

“Are you hurt?” Billy asks again, because he’s not sure how to respond to Goody’s confession, and he can’t think of any other reason why Goody would be acting so strange.

Goody shakes his head. “I just need a moment.”

Billy nods. He goes to rest against the wall, alongside Goody, sliding slowly to the floor. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Goody nods too, the motion jerky, then slides to the floor as well.

Billy lets Goody be, and pulls out his pack of cigarettes. He takes the last one out of the package along with the lighter he stores next to it. The first inhale is a relief.

“Can you spare another?” Goody asks quietly.

Billy takes one more drag and then hands his last smoke over.

“Obliged,” Goody says as he takes it.

He smokes in silence, occasionally handing it back to Billy, and in only a few minutes, the cigarette is burned down to its filter.

“I would offer you another…” Billy says.

“But I already took your last, I know. We’ll stop by a gas station on the way back to my hotel room.”

 _Awfully forward of you,_ Billy wants to say, but he holds his tongue. It doesn't feel like the time for jokes. They both stand, and Billy watches Goody finish collecting himself. Then he walks up to Declan and retrieves his knife. 

“Are you sure that you're ready?” he asks after he re-sheaths.

Goody scowls. “Of course I’m ready.”

“I am not judging.”

Goody swallows. “I have nothing to be ashamed of,” he says, but he sounds unconvinced.

When they exit the warehouse, Billy pauses, expecting to hear sirens. “No police,” he observes, surprised.

“Well, I didn't call to give them the heads up this time,” Goody answers. “After all, I knew I’d have you as my backup.”

“You couldn't know I would come.”

Goody smiles, a slight but sincere thing. “I had a feeling.”

It's then Billy notices Goody is carrying the briefcase full of cash.

They share a moment. A look. Billy feels his heart swell with fondness, and can't bring himself to be bothered by the affection. This man is special, and Billy’s always believed in appreciating the unique.

“So,” Goody says, breaking their eye contact. “Where's our getaway car?”

“I took a cab. There wasn't exactly time to stop at an Enterprise.”

“Well, shit. I took a cab, too.” Goody _tuts_ , his hands coming up to rest on his hips. “Well, shit,” he repeats.

Billy looks around until his eyes land on a small sedan parked a few blocks down. “I think I found our ride.”

-

They drive in near-silence, except for the moments when Goody tells Billy where and when to turn to get to his hotel. Billy suspects they each have plenty on their minds, and he doesn't try to push Goody to reveal what’s on his. Goody is kind enough to return the favor. Billy’s not ready to express the depth of his feelings just yet. At one point, though, Goody clears his throat.

“I'm sorry I stole your car,” he says. He sounds genuinely contrite.

Billy shrugs, shooting Goody a quick glance. “It's okay. I stole it first.”

Goody shakes his head, smiling. “I figured as much.”

Quiet falls again.

Along the way, Billy stops for the promised cigarettes, buying them with a credit card he lifted from Goody just before they got in the car. Payback. He picks up a twelve pack of beer and a bottle of whiskey, too, just to be safe. He figures it's the least Goody can do for him. Plus, Billy recalls being promised at least one beer anyway.

About ten minutes later, they arrive at the hotel. It’s well-maintained, if not overly opulent, though Billy notes that Goody has still managed to snag the best suite. It’s enormous, the kind with a lounging area, a kitchenette, and a separate bedroom. Goody apparently needs the space, as Billy spots various personal items scattered around the entire suite. There's a jacket and tie on the couch; coffee cups on every table; a book left open on the bed. Billy doesn't know how long Goody’s been here, but clearly he's made himself comfortable.

Once inside, Goody takes an enormous breath. Billy watches the tension bleed out of his shoulders with every moment of the exhale. The transformation when Goody’s done is notable.

“Bring a couple of those beers and a few of those smokes out on the balcony, would you?” he says as he heads for the bedroom. “I have _got_ to get out of this suit.”

Billy does why he’s asked, making himself comfortable he goes. He loosens his tie and ditches his coat on the couch beside Goody’s, though he keeps his blazer on underneath. If they're going to be outside, he better keep somewhat warm. And indeed, when he steps outside, he immediately considers retreat.

“Isn't it a little cold to be out here?” he asks when Goody reappears.

“The beers will keep us warm,” Goody insists as he grabs one and hunkers down on one of the chairs.

Billy wants to argue. _That’s not true. In fact, the opposite happens._ But he thinks there's probably a more private reason Goody doesn't want to be trapped inside.

“You bring those cigarettes?”

Billy takes out the carton in answer, removing two cigarettes and lighting them both. He passes one over to Goody, then sits in the other chair beside him.

“How did you become what you are?” he asks after a few minutes have passed.

Goody laughs. “Asking the big questions, I see.”

Billy keeps his face impassive and waits.

“That is a conversation for another time, Mr. Rocks. For tonight, I’d simply like to enjoy your company and the evening air, and drink until I pass out.”

Billy gives Goody a weighted look. “If I do the same, will you still be here when I wake up?”

Goody’s smile is wicked. “Are you a gambling man, Billy?”

"At least answer me this: it was you who switched out the heroin tonight, right? So they'd start a battle and you could make off with the money?"

Goody's silence is answer enough.

Billy extends his beer. “Cheers, Goody.”

Goody clinks their bottles.

“Cheers.”

**Author's Note:**

> so i've kind of decided at the last minute to put this fic on hiatus, which is why i'm now showing it as completed. i'm so sorry for any inconvenience to readers--your support was amazing!
> 
> find me on tumblr to find out if/when i'll start posting again: slash--y.tumblr.com


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